Holy

Getting off the plane was the most alien feeling imaginable at the time. The new atmosphere was hot. The airport hallways were humid, everybody was restless and everybody looked like they were walking zombies. They were all uniformly following whoever was in front of them. I felt dehumanized.

We moved to America due to my father’s change in work. His work in graphic design has forced us to relocate. My mother, who knew hardly any english at all, was reasonably uncomfortable with the drastic change in our lives. I learned a fair amount of english in school, however my conversational skills are still weaker than I’d hope for and I am still more comfortable speaking mandarin. My father, who had been traveling for work since the beginning of his career, had developed very good english for an immigrant. Constant business meetings and social interactions required him to learn how to present himself mannerably in full english.

Daily life in China was very consistent. Day to day, my life consisted of eating breakfast with my mother, going to school, studying in my room and spending an hour practicing violin before helping prepare dinner and and repeating the process. This sudden change in my life. I felt lost. I felt so alone.

I wasn’t prepared to be enrolled in classes before moving, so my first couple of weeks in America are going to be spent at home with my mother, helping her to cook meals for the three of us. 

As we were finishing setting the table for breakfast this morning, an unannounced knocking on the door startled my mother. We hadn’t yet introduced ourselves to the neighborhood, we had barely moved in yet. She nervously opens the door to see a couple holding a basket of fruits and pastries. They were very ecstatic to see new neighbors. The woman had a wide smile and engaging eyes while the man was more conversational and trying to welcome my mother into the neighborhood. He saw a little past the doorway behind my mother to where I was still bringing food to the table. “Oh, is that your daughter? Is the father home at all?” 

My mother sheepishly says yes and calls my father from their bedroom. He comes downstairs with his work clothes on looking very presentable for the new neighbors; a white collared shirt, dress pants and a partially finished tie. He comes to the door to greet the couple as the woman hands him the welcome basket and he shakes hands with the friendly man. Our neighbor spoke too fast for me to understand. It was clear that he was very excited to see a new family in the community.

It started as soon as my father came back home from a night out with the neighbors. The first night, he was ecstatic that the neighborhood was so quickly warming up to him and expressing their joy in having us around. Much to our surprise, my father was more than happy to keep meeting with them in contrast to his normal introverted self.

 Eventually, he was introduced to their church group who praised him for joining them weekly. This soon became almost daily. My mother, on the other hand, never particularly grew into this new group. It was clear that she was never keen on going to their meetings and dinners. She doesn’t speak poorly of them at all, instead she avoids conversation with them. While my father is at work, she tells me about how the neighbors are a bad influence on my father, how he never would have acted like this back in China. 

About a month after visiting their church group’s meetings, my father began developing more of a liking to religion. He never practiced anything, I think that he just viewed it as very interesting. Especially whatever our neighborhood’s church is teaching. They gave him gifts to take home; symbols and relics of their faith. It didn’t take very long before our home was adorned with crosses. Every wall has at least a dozen hanging perfectly straight. Every shelf has their share of crosses as well. Such a morbid piece to have in the household. 

Father became obsessed with the imagery. He treated every cross in our house as a prized possession. If my mother would so much as move one out of the way he would scold her and be quick to assure it is back in its rightful place. My mother is too fearful to argue about it in any way. She has slowly become less and less talkative at home and she avoids speaking whenever possible. Before moving here, she could talk to me about anything. Now she only cries on my shoulder.

After they came home from their night out, it has been quiet - more so than it normally would be in our house. At this time there would normally be someone cooking food or having a conversation, but there is nothing at all. Nobody is so much as moving enough to make the floors creak. No howling of wind is blowing through the windows.

I didn’t think anything would have gone too wrong. Maybe Father and my mother had had an argument after their potluck. I doubt the neighbors would have sparked anything earlier, they were too friendly with my parents and it seemed like he reciprocated the feelings. I noticed that, since we moved in and Father started having dinner nights with the neighbors church group, my mother has been less conversational with me. As soon as Father comes home, she leaves the room if we are together, and sometimes even go straight to bed. Being so far away from home has changed her, made her feel far away from us. 

 As I got up from my bed to check on my mother, I was almost scared of making a sound. The atmosphere of the house feels as if it was meant to be silent. I slowly make my way down the hallway towards my parents’ room wondering what might be the cause of their silence. I can’t help but stay conscious of the sound of my footsteps. I don’t want to be a disturbance if something is wrong. It only occurs to me now how many floorboards in our house are aged and loud. The need arises to walk on the tips of my toes. There is no real need for me to be so quiet, yet I fear my presence might not be wanted. 

The door to their room was left open a couple of inches, just enough to push open without having to worry about the sound of the doorknob. Upon breaching through the doorway lies the cause of tonight’s absence. My mother laid in their bed, alone. Her two lips were sewn shut, blood dried running down her chin. The tears that ran down her cheeks had crusted down the sides of her face. Scratches down her throat were still red and irritated. Her wounds were not deep enough to draw blood. I feel the sudden urge to vomit upon seeing my mother in this condition, and yet father was nowhere to be found. If I had not seen the details of her face, and the thread that binds her mouth together, she would appear peacefully asleep. Lying on her back, her body is not contorted in any way that would show struggle.

I rush to the bathroom across from their door, slamming the door behind me and locking it shut. I gag into the toilet bowl thinking about what I had just seen. The only sound in the whole house is me bawling and vomiting into water. I can’t understand how this could happen. Who could have done this to her? Just when I thought she was she was coming back to her normal self, something this disastrous and gruesome happens. I finally thought I was getting my mother back. 

What unnerves me the most is how peaceful she seemed. After being so violently abused, there she was in bed with her arms to her side. She looked as if she had just gone to bed by her own will. But it was clear that this was not the case. Her throat was still red and bruised under her chin. Her eyes were crusted over from her tears, and the thick white thread that bind her lips together was clearly stained with her blood. The image of her lying there could not escape my mind. The constant flow of everything in my body leaving me couldn’t even take away that vision. 

Where has my father gone? I know that the two of them didn’t come home on the best terms with each other, but nothing can explain how he could let this happen to her. My father has never been the kind to let his loved ones come to harm. Everything happening today feels so surreal. Even when I’m dreaming, or having nightmares, the thoughts rushing through my head are never as terrifying as right now. On my knees with my head over the toilet, I know that every second of tonight is real.

Waking up this morning felt like it was just a few weeks ago. There was no Father storming down the stairs, and my mother was silent in her room. Oddly enough, this is as peaceful as the house has felt in what feels like ages. I wasn’t anxious to leave my room, waiting for Father to finally leave the house so that I could get ready for school. 

I was able to take my time, picking my clothes and packing my bag. The thought never crossed my mind to be wary of the sound I was causing. One of the floorboards next to my desk had just barely creaked as I was sitting down to put everything in my bag. It isn’t until now that I realize that I was so careless. I finally felt free in my own space again.

Opening the door gave me the feeling that I just stepped into a movie. I took a deep breath and appreciated the silence in the atmosphere. As part of what was my standard morning routine, before leaving for class I go into my mother’s room to let her know I was on my way out. I open the door expecting to see her still asleep in bed. I tried to not make too much noise by opening the old wooden door. She was not in bed - her sheets and blankets were sprawled around the bed. Their balcony door was open and the wind was blowing the curtains violently into the room. 

A sense of vertigo kicked in as I stepped onto the second floor balcony. I was never allowed to be in this space. It feels so open - I feel so vulnerable here. The ladder that normally stayed downstairs was out on the balcony with me leading up to the rooftop. I don’t know what possessed me to think I should climb up it. As my eyes rise over the peak of the roof, I’m shown the horror of why I came here. Facing the street was my mother and Father. With two large wooden crosses impaling the roofing tiles, their bodies stood motionless looking out over the neighborhood. Their hands were hanging lifelessly off the extensions of their crucifixes. In hindsight, the silence this morning was not a blessing. 

I panicked at the sight and shook the ladder under my feet. Quickly, I try to regain my balance and make my way up to where my parents were hanging. Already horrified by the pure idea of what has happened, my morbid curiosity sparks to see what the look like from the front. As I walk towards their bodies doing my best to keep my composure on the slanted rooftop, my eyes focus on all the other buildings in the neighborhood. Every single one for as far as I could see, mothers and fathers all nailed to crosses on top of their houses and apartments. Across the street were the neighbors that greeted us on our first day here, calmly residing on their wooden stakes.